


Dollhouse Ouija Board Murder Game

by SomeBratInAMask



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Halloween, Hitori Kakurenbo, Holiday Fic Exchange, Horror, Multi, they play hide and seek alone because they're all dumbasses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2543837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re crazy if you think you’re vandalizing motel property to try and damn us to hell,” Rod said flatly.</p><p>“Trust me, my man, the last one going to hell in this entire building is you,” promised Alfred.</p><p>“Just because I’m last doesn’t mean I’m safe! It’s just delayed perdition!”</p><p>“Chill with the fire and brimstone, Rod,” Gil placated. “The game sounds kind of fun.”</p><p>Alfred beamed. “Liz?” he prodded.</p><p>Liz inspected the seams along the bear. “Sure. As long as I don’t get killed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let's Do This Shit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingandchocolatemilk](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=writingandchocolatemilk).



The green of blurry trees was melting into the orange of the evening sky, making the view outside Gil’s car window look like mashed carrots and peas. It was as if the entire car was submerged in peas and carrots, like a horde of angry babies had hurled gallons of their canned dinners at Alfred’s friends, which was a really kind of gross analogy that made Alfred a little nauseous. Or maybe it was just the incomprehensible speed Gil was going on the road that churned his stomach. Alfred stretched across the emergency brake from his passenger seat, peering at the speedometer hitting 100 MPH and resting his chin on Gil’s shoulder while he was at it. “Shit,” Alfred laughed breathily. He wasn’t sure if it was the 100, the racing peas-and-carrots scenery, or the lingering Dollar Store cologne still on Gil’s skin like baked bread left to permeate a kitchen as it cooled - but he was in a state of speechless awe.

A jolt from his seat knocked his back and he twisted to see Liz kicking her legs up on either side of his chair. He expected to find some warning in her wildchild green eyes, a telepathic message to stay away from Gil, but she was completely checked out, cheek pressing the window sill, thick curls whipping out the car like wings propelling the wheels at breakneck down the interstate, building traction for the take-off.

Alfred glanced to Rod next to her. His eyes were closed, head hanging over the back of their seat with his profile titled to the cushion and his glasses pushed to his hair. He would’ve appeared asleep, had his knuckles not been white in their mad grip on the ceiling handles. Alfred faced forward. “Think you could chill on the pedal there, dude? Rod’s gonna puke,” he helped, only because he knew Gil wouldn’t dare slow down and Alfred didn’t want him to. It was picturesquely surreal, cramped in the jalopy with three almost-strangers as one of them tried to outdrive the sunset. Gil introducing himself a month before Alfred started college, inviting him on a road trip like a medical prescription, briefing him on his ex-girlfriend and best friend as they got in the car, and hightailing it out of Michigan - that was fast. Faster than his mother could call him to dinner. Alfred was learning to love the fast life like a house cat learning to love its first batch of grass - by rolling in it.

“Rod’s going to be fine,” Gil predictably dismissed, grinning with every hour he's been awake wedged between his teeth. “He just needs to relax at the hotel coming up in, uh,” he waved his palm in a guessing motion, “hour and a half.”

“It’ll be worse at the hotel. Every Halloween-loving serial killer is going to be swarming the parking lot,” Rod spoke with enough anxiety to power Neurotic City.

Gil _pft_ ’d. “Don’t mind the trick-or-treaters. Don’t let their tiny height and entreating eyes creep you out. They smell fear.”

“They smell candy, dipshit,” Liz laughed, lifting her face minutely to be heard over the wind.

“They ain’t getting shit from me,” swore Alfred, emphatically kicking the bags of candy piled near his feet. They had emptied out an already ransacked Walmart during a pit stop before the state border.

“I’m not talking about kids and you know it,” Rod stated tiredly.

“Easy, Rod. If there’s any serial killers at that hotel, it’s going to be us.” Gil smiled at Alfred to make sure he caught how funny he was. Alfred smiled back. Gil’s face was attractively dainty, with delicately sharp cheekbones beneath smooth white skin and a chin that ended his jaw like the upside-down triangle roof of a house. His hair was choppy and paler than the flesh that stretched over the definition of his collar bones peeking from his Metallica tank top. He had red eyes usually kept hidden behind sunglasses, that weren’t right now, in the shade of a car speeding into the nightfall.

Alfred shifted, fitting his legs on the seat. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, studying Gil, “you kind of look like a lab rat.”

Gil balked. “A _what?”_

Alfred lolled his head and ticked off on his fingers. “White fur, pointy face, skinny body, beady red eyes.”

Gil’s jaw dropped, snapped shut, turned to the windshield, faced Alfred again, dropped again. _“The hell?_ I do _not_ look like a lab rat.”

Behind, Liz chuckled.

“Liz, shut up,” Gil snapped. The laughter heightened.

“Yes, you do,” Alfred insisted. He fingered one of Gil’s gages. “See, you even got an ear tag to identify you from the other rats.”

Gil slapped his hand away. “Oh, my god. I cannot believe you would say that to me. I have the cruelest boyfriend ever.”

Alfred choked mid-laugh, gaze zeroing in on Gil who was staring straight ahead, poker face tightly fixed. The tips of his ears were rosy.

Alfred smiled small, crossing his arms and nestling back into the seat. “Yeah,” he agreed,” you do.”

Liz struck Gil’s seat, slamming him into the wheel and honking the horn. Rod shrieked.

It was nearing midnight when they arrived at the Opulence Motel, which Rod was quick to call oxymoronic.

“You’re a moron,” retorted Alfred, swinging his door open and nicking the pick-up truck in the other lane. Oops. Alfred swiftly shut his door. “Let’s find another place to park.”

Gil shot him a confused look. “Why?”

“I just scratched the truck next to us.”

“Really?”

Guiltily, “Really.”

“God, kill me,” Rod moaned.

Gil bent forward, seeing the truck and the slash of torn paint. _“Fuck,”_ he murmured. “Alright,” he said more lightly, pulling out. “No big deal, no big deal.” He drove around to a space near the dumpster where there were no bordering cars to damage.

“Sweet.” Alfred hopped out first, slinging the bags of candy on his wrist.

Gil got out, throwing open Rod’s door as Liz shuffled out the opposite side. She circled to the trunk and banged her fist like a gavel, popping it open.

“You two are going to break his car,” Rod nagged, fighting with his seatbelt. Liz knelt, leaning over to succinctly unbuckle him before retrieving their luggage.

Alfred stuck his tongue out at Rod as he stepped into the parking lot, Gil locking the car. Alfred came up behind Liz, shoving his hands into his jean pockets as she hefted two suitcases in each fist.

Alfred looked about idly. There were no stars among the streetlights and neon signs dotting the hotel strip. The dumpster swarmed with flies and smelled of rotten everything. He watched Rod wrinkle his nose at the stench, and Gil coughing and laughing, doubling over theatrically. The motel billboard, shorter than its neighbor signs and standing on a thick, stubby pole, was blown out at random letters, alighting the invitation: AL AYS OP N. The asphalt was badly cracked, like a wrinkled face, and was the color of graying hair. The motel itself had patchy brown shingles, unfashionably rustic. Budget aesthetic. Generically crappy. Alfred nodded thoughtfully. “This place does kind of look like shit, Gil. No offense.”

Rod fanned his arms. “Thank you!” His button-up shirt was hiked over his nose. “I’m fairly certain our budget could’ve afforded at least _slightly_ above average lodgings.”

“The less picky we are about the motel, the more fun we can have in New York,” Gil lectured.

Liz elbowed the trunk shut, holding all of their suitcases.

“That didn’t hurt?” asked Alfred, impressed.

Liz whipped her neck, tossing her hair out of her eyes. “No more than carrying everyone’s stuff!” she forced between a clenched smile.

Alfred stared blankly. “Oh. Okay.” He pivoted on his heels, sauntering to the door. Liz jerked her chin at Gil. He jogged over, taking the lighter bags.

“Real gem you got there,” Liz commented.

Gil smiled apologetically. “Yeah, he probably eats more than he pulls his own weight.”

Liz made a show of eying Gil’s pants. “I’ll bet.”

 

Rod stood over Liz on the double-sized bed. “Why do you have that?” he demanded. Liz was dressed down to a baggy shirt and jersey shorts, toned legs pretzeled on the deep red sheets. They were stained with dark splotches of guests passed, as well as tears in some areas where the thread had thinned. She clasped a black beanie bear whose stomach was branded Opulence Motel.

“Isn’t it cute?” She held the bear up for him.

He scowled. “You stole that from the front desk.”

“No, I didnt. I’m giving it back in the morning.”

“You should give it back now.”

She reached up, unbuttoning Rod’s overshirt and sliding off his sleeves. “No harm, no foul. They’ll get it back before they realize it’s gone.” She smiled easily, bopping his nose and pouting when he glared.

Alfred exited the bathroom, toothpaste coating the corners of lips. “Dibs on the bed by the wall!” he proclaimed, flopping onto the pillows.

“You can’t call dibs on the only possible option,” argued Liz. “That was going to be your bed already, since I chose this one.”

“I can call dibs on whatever I want. I just don’t want your bed. It’s lame.” His eyes fell on the beanie in Liz’s hands. “Hey, you know what would be cool to play?” he proposed.

“Count the sheep?” Gil guessed, leaving the bathroom. He had shucked his shirt, wearing only loose sweatpants that hung low on narrow hips. Beads of water dripped from the wet hair plastered to his forehead. Steam rolled out the bathroom like mist invading a beachshore before a seastorm.

“No, no sleeping!” Alfred outruled.

“I’m tired,” Gil reminded. “I’ve been driving for hours.”

“Like you would let us drive your car anyway,” Liz quipped.

“Not the point.” Gil laid next to Alfred on the pillows, propping his hands behind his head on the wall.

Alfred sprung upward. “It’s called Hide-and-Seek Alone!” he surged. “You get a doll,” Alfred pointed to the motel bear, “some rice, some red thread, a little salt, and you’re good to go!”

Gil raised his hand.

“Yes! my good sir?” Alfred permitted.

“Where are we getting the thread, the rice, and the salt from?”

“Terrific question!” Alfred praised. Rod shushed him, nodding to the potential people behind the walls, and was ignored. “Firstly, the rice! Remember the instant rice I got at Walmart?”

“Sure.”

“I didn’t eat it all. It’s still in my bag.”

Gil winced. “Gross.”

“The red thread: Rod, you brung yarn for crocheting, or whatever?” Alfred imitated the weaving of needles.

“It’s not red,” corrected Rod, “it’s blue.”

Alfred shrugged. “I’ve got a red sharpie in Gil’s car. I’ll just color the strands.”

“Why do you have a sharpie in my car?” questioned Gil.

“Incase I needed to write something down.”

“Where did you put it?”

“The floor.”

“Dude - that’s not where utensils go!”

“Sh, sh.” Alfred patted Gil’s cheek. “You’ll be fine. The sharpie will find where it belongs some day.”

Gil began to say, “The dash - ” when Alfred pinched his lips.

“Lastly, the salt,” Alfred continued, “we might be able to find something in the employees’ lounge.”

“We’re not rummaging through the employees’ lounge,” Rod opposed. He was laying on the bed now, twirling one of Liz’s curls distractedly around his index finger.

Alfred rolled his eyes. “Come on, like they even need the salt.”

 _“We_ don’t need the salt!”

“Huh.” Alfred puckered his lips. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’ll skip that part.”

Liz raised her hand. “Can I ask what this game even is?”

“Hide-and-Seek Alone,” Alfred repeated. “I said that, right?”

Gil pried Alfred’s fingers from his mouth. “The point of the game, babe.”

Alfred rocked his head back, finding the ceiling. “Ah,” he drew out, “Of course. We’re channeling demonic presences through the doll.”

“The fuck?” swore Gil, staring in shock.

“Yeah! You see,” Alfred jumped into his explanation animatedly, “the doll is a vessel for possession. The rice represents the viscera and shit. The red thread is the blood vessels binding the spirit inside the doll. The rice is just to prevent possession. Nobody would happen to have sage on them, would they?”

His friends scrutinized him silently.

“Alright. Just wondering. Cleansing purposes and whatnot,” Alfred breezed by. “Anyway, we cut open the doll, stuff the rice in, sew it up with Rod’s yarn, and tell the doll who’s It.”

“You’re crazy if you think you’re vandalizing motel property to try and damn us to hell,” Rod said flatly.

“Trust me, my man, the last one going to hell in this entire building is you,” promised Alfred.

“Just because I’m last doesn’t mean I’m safe! It’s just delayed perdition!”

“Chill with the fire and brimstone, Rod,” Gil placated. “The game sounds kind of fun.”

Alfred beamed. “Liz?” he prodded.

Liz inspected the seams along the bear. “Sure. As long as I don’t get killed.”

“Well, I mean, the salt was honestly our only protection. But, Rod said no,” Alfred crooned.

Liz elbowed Rod. “ _Thanks,_ Rod.” She glowered playfully at him.

“Literally, I am the only one here pro-living.”

Gil sat up. “All for dollhouse ouija board murder game, say ‘I’!”

Liz, Gil, and Alfred chorused in favor.

“All against?”

“We’re all going to die.”

“Commence the game!”

“Where did you get that switchblade, by the way?” inquired Alfred. He was hard at work coloring Rod’s yarn as Gil researched the details of the game on his phone. Their legs were intertwined on the bed. Rod clutched a pillow to his face.

Liz’s legs were crossed as she concentrated on cleanly slicing open the bear. Her switchblade was small, sharp, and with a purple handle. “My dad gave it to me for my eighth Christmas. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why they separated January,” she mused mildly, not breaking from her task. The final stitch popped off. “Alrighty,” she chirped, standing up and transporting the doll above the tiny trash can in the corner of the room. She shook the bear and white beads poured from its dark back, like stars escaping a black hole.

She wiggled it a few times, emptying the last bits. Then she peeled the lid from Alfred’s half-eaten rice cup and dumped the remains into the bear’s back. “The rice transplant has been successful,” she announced.

“Awesome. Now everyone needs to put their fingernails in - ”

“Our what?” Gil interrupted.

 _“Or locks of hair,”_ Alfred amended, as if this might somehow be better.

Gil hurriedly scrolled down whatever article he was reading till he skimmed something. “Well, shit. Fingernails.”

“Yup,” Alfred stuck his thumb between his teeth, ripping off a sliver of his nail. “Here,” he said to Liz.

Liz’s face contorted. “Thanks,” she said wryly, reluctantly taking Alfred’s nail. Liz plucked a long strand of her hair, stuffing it in the bear, along with Alfred’s offering. “Any reason why we’re providing the spirits with DNA samples?”

“Uh, maybe to animate them. Or, it could be a sacrifice,” Alfred speculated.

“This blog post theorizes it’s a curse on whoever contributes to the sacrifice,” supplied Gil.

“Sounds optimistic,” Liz observed. “Rod, care to throw a body part in the pot?”

“No.”

“Fair enough,” Gil grunted, stretching across the bed to give Liz his own nail clipping. She dutifully stuffed in. “Says here the doll has to look like a human, though. So it doesn’t try to leave. Demons like human bodies, apparently. Not that I disagree, we’re pretty hot as a species,” he smirked.

Alfred chuckled. “Most sources say it can be whatever, so I’m going with that.”

“Should I still trust this site, then?”

“Sure,” Alfred approved. He held up his colored yarn. “Done with the thread, Liz.”

“Cool. Toss it.”

Alfred did so, Liz catching the ball in the air. She sat on the floor, spinning the ball in her hand wordlessly. She looked to the bed. “Rod, how do you sew?”

“Not with yarn,” came his muffled response.

“But that’s all we have.”

Rod sighed. “You could try knitting. Not sure how effectual it’d be.”

_“Roderich.”_

“ _Why?_ I don’t want any part in this!”

 _“_ Just lace the back up. That’s it,” she simplified.

“Yeah, bro. Come on,” Alfred seconded.

“Don’t pussy out on us,” warned Gil.

“Rod, come one. Please, man?” Alfred whined.

“Fine,” Rod relented regretfully.

“Yay!” Liz cheered, bouncing up and engulfing him in a hug.

“Yes, yes,” he grumbled. “Yarn,” he beckoned, sitting up and displaying his palm. Liz retrieved the yarn and the bear for him, as well as the hooks when he huffed about needing those, too. Rod, despite the supposed impossibility of sewing with crochet hooks and yarn, made quick and neat work of the bear’s seams. After, he wound the excess yarn around the bear’s legs and arms, as Gil had advised. Alfred, meanwhile, had plugged the sink drain and was filling the basin with tap water. He directed Liz to turn off the lights. When he was done, everyone gathered in the modest bathroom.

Rod passed the bear to Alfred, who held it over the sink Simba-style. “Do we have to say anything?” Alfred asked.

“Yeah, we need to name it,” said Gil.

“Baby noir. It’s French for black,” Liz informed pleasantly.

“Really? We’re going to name a malevolent spirit Baby Black?” Alfred pitched his eyebrows.

“Enfer Noir, then,” she suggested. “ _Enfer_ is French for hell.”

“Black Hell,” Alfred translated, testing the words. He hummed appreciatively. “I like it. It’s pretentious and pretty. Kind of reminds me of this French exchange student in my math class. He - ”

“Can we get on with this?” Rod snapped.

Alfred grinned, clapping Rod on the back. Rod _oof_ ’d. “Sure, buddy,” he allowed. “Operation: Dollhouse Ouija Board Murder Game is officially a go-go.” Gil and Alfred shared a smile, glancing briefly at each other to convey how awesome the name was.

“Let’s do this shit.”


	2. Enfer Noir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter may be a bit boring. Originally, it was half of the final chapter, but I decided to split the last chapter into two and update today. Think of this as a transitional point. Chapter three should be pretty eventful.

Gil moved closer to the sink, doing a cursory read before tucking his phone in the loose pockets of his sweats. He cleared his throat. “Gilbert will be the first It,” he commanded, “Gilbert will the first It. Gilbert will be the first It.

“Drop the doll,” he ordered Alfred. Alfred released Enfer Noir and water splashed in an echo of the bear’s weight hitting the sink.

“Now we hide,” Alfred guided.

 _“Where?”_ Rod hissed. “Under the beds? Behind the end table?” An antsiness was already crawling up his spine to the tension in his shoulders, rolling whispers to run.

“I don’t know. Hallway?” Alfred decided. “We only have to count to ten out there, anyway. I remember the steps for this part.” He led the way out, everyone grabbing their lodge keys before slipping through the door.

They huddled near outside their room. Most of them were doing their best to suppress the rogue giggles provoked by the need to be quiet. The wallpaper wasn’t the antique rosy color as it was in their room, but a mucus sort of cream that had faint abstract patterns. It was turned a sickly yellow where the shell-shaped sconces casted their muted light. The carpet was blue with yellow and red and green squiggles, like a bus seat.

Ten seconds passed.

Alfred unlocked the door. He reentered the bathroom, his friends clustering behind him. They kept the lights off. A chain hung from the ceiling as an old-fashioned toilet flusher. A red plunger, the rubber kind shaped like a bowl, stood in the corner. There were puddles on the sink counter and on the tiled floor from when Alfred had dunked Enfer Noir.

Alfred surveyed the sink with a fuddled expression. “Where’s Enfer Noir?”

Gil squeezed through the threshold. He propped his hands on Alfred’s shoulders, thumbs skating under Alfred’s short sleeves and sketching small circles on his skin. Gil’s eyes did a run-down of the bathroom. He stopped at the floor and pointed. “The ground,” he solved.

Alfred stumbled at the sight of the black bear bound in red yarn, flailing backward into Liz and Rod. Liz peered around Alfred to see the doll splayed out on its stomach. Her brows knitted together. “Did it fall?” she asked. “You know, out of the sink?”

Gil leaned down and picked it up. He unconsciously gripped the plush belly tighter than necessary, pulse beating on its fur through the pads of his fingers. “Does it matter?” he said. “No point getting worked up over it.” He held out his palm to Liz. “I’m going to need your knife now. Part of the ritual is stabbing.”

Liz dug the knife out from her bra. Gil nodded appreciatively. “Hot,” he approved, taking the knife.

“Just stab it.”

Gil placed Enfer Noir on the counter. “I found you,” he recited. He drove the blade into its stomach. “Now Enfer Noir is It!” The knife came down again, and then again, to the beat of the chant. When he was done, he left the knife buried in the bear and swept it in the sink.

They waited.

“Um,” broke Rod, “now what?” He rose on his tip toes to peek at the stationary bear.

“Oh, uh,” Alfred murmured, “I guess we just - leave now. Hide.” He spun on his heels and swung open the door, shuffling as a group into the halls and quietly latching the door in its frame. They leaned against the walls and counted to ten again without event.

Gil glanced impatiently at the door. “How long til Liz’s bear is supposed to find us?”

“It’s not hers,” reminded Rod.

“After performing major surgery on it, it is,” Liz differed.

Gil tittered. “Nah, Liz, you should just leave the bear on the front desk, dripping wet and full of rice and yarn bondage, see how the staff reacts. Oh, my god - ”

“Can you guys shut up?” Alfred snapped. “We’re _hiding._ ”

“Babe, we’re right outside the door. How difficult do you think we are to find?” Gil remarked, nonetheless lowering his voice.

Alfred looked nervously around the stretch of mucus wallpaper and bus seat carpet, biting his lip. “Um, want to try hiding in the lobby?”

“No, that’s ridiculous!” Rod opposed. Gil shushed him. “We’ll draw the attendant’s attention to us,” Rod carried on quietly.

 _"Please?”_ Alfred pleaded. “I promise we’ll be quiet.”

Liz interjected, “Let’s just go.”

Gil agreed.

Rod sighed defeatedly. “I can’t believe this.”

Alfred smiled, in contrast to his paled complexion and fidgeting eyes. It was the same contented anxiety he felt before entering a funhouse or playing a horror game. Gil wrapped an arm around his waist as they headed to the lobby. “Hey,” Alfred said to Rod, “if this goes according to plan, hiding in the lobby is going to be the most believable part of the night.” Gil nodded and flashed Rod a wink.

Rod narrowed his eyes warily at Alfred’s smile. He shook his head disapprovingly, trailing beside Liz’s eager march. “This is not proper patronage.”

The walk’s atmosphere was similar to when they were kids and would pretend their friend’s house was haunted. It was a ticklish fear that was only fun because they controlled the reason to be scared. The power of imagination versus the power of pragmatic disbelief; a combination that sometimes worked together.

* * *

 

At the end of the hallway was a staircase, which immediately expanded into a small, ovular room with two brown loveseats, an on old lamp turned off atop a scuffled end table, and a disproportionately large coffee table as the focal point of the arrangement. Alfred motioned to the loveseats at the foot of the stairs. Liz and Rod scurried over to the right-hand couch.

The desk attendant - a dark, gangly boy barely past his teenage years - perked his head up from where he was dozing on the counter. He watched the four with open bafflement, not saying a word. Alfred waved awkwardly in greeting before ducking behind the left-hand couch.

Gil crouched beside him, pulling his legs up to his chest and resting his cheek on his knees. “Is it coming?” he mouthed.

“Maybe,” Alfred whispered back loudly.

Gil nodded, then yawned. Alfred shushed him.

They must’ve waited ten minutes, getting progressively chattier behind the couches with the desk attendant keeping watch, when Rod announced this was stupid. Alfred abandoned all pretense of quietness to beg Rod to wait at least ten more minutes.

“No, I’m tired,” Rod protested. Purple bruised beneath his eyes in heavy bags.

“You’re not supposed to fall asleep until the game is over,” Alfred warned.

“Well, when is it over?”

Alfred looked to Gil for the answer.

“It said that you need to douse the doll in salt water to end the game,” he recounted.

“We don’t have salt,” Rod pointed out agitatedly.

“We could just burn it,” Gil suggested.

 _“Oh, that’s safe,”_ Rod snipped.

“Is everything okay?” the man called from the desk.

Alfred popped his head over the loveseat. “Yup, everything’s great! Keep up the good work!” he gave a thumbs-up and disappeared again.

“Look,” Gil began, spreading his hands, “we don’t even know if the summoning worked.”

“Are you locked out of your rooms?” the desk tried.

“No, we’re not, thank you!” Alfred assured.

“So, why don’t I just check in on it, see if it’s moved,” volunteered Gil, “or slaughtered of the guests - ”

“May I ask what you’re up to?” returned the desk’s anxious voice.

“Just trying to catch some Z’s for tomorrow’s drive!” Liz replied.

“How’s that sound?” Gil said.

Liz analyzed her nails. “Whatever. Get on with it.”

“Fuck yeah!” Alfred fist-bumped Gil. Gil stood, snagging a kiss from Alfred and taking off at a jog down the hall.

* * *

 

Gil slowed his pace after mounting the staircase. His stamina had forsaken him. There was no way he could drive tomorrow if he didn’t sleep tonight. Rod would complain about taking the wheel, but Alfred couldn’t watch the road and Liz thought every car that passed her wanted a race.

The carpet looked cozy. He could lay down and sleep on it.

In the corner of his eye, one of the shell-shaped sconces flickered. A couple steps and another sconce burned out. As he ambled, every other sconce turned off, then on. It was like alternating Christmas lights, or the pulsing of a heart. Step, left light off, step, right light off, left light on. Gil halted, scrutinizing the lights. “Not enough gore,” he criticized aloud. He skated his tongue along his bottom lip, uneasy. The air seemed to congeal and plaster to his skin like a fast-hardening wax. It constricted around his throat. Hard to breathe.

He ran. He wanted out of the hallway. The wax was thickest on his back and it wouldn’t dry. It dripped coolly under his shirt, like ice boiling. He pressed for their room, ignoring everything behind. He didn’t want to know.

His feet hit the floor at a race, and the entire hall went black. He swore, still dashing, then kept swearing because his voice sounded safe in the blindness, a reassurance of the senses.

He blinked rapidly in an effort to beat away the dark. The number plates slowly formed into something legible, and he counted _42, 44, 46, 48..._

Gil jabbed his key randomly around the door, forcing himself to register where the slot was. He finally made contact and slammed the door open. He hit the room’s lights, adrenaline punching the wall switch and brightening the room in dim yellow.

Stiffly, he moved himself toward the bathroom, swiping at the light. The puddles hadn’t dried. There was no jump-scare waiting to pounce. Enfer Noir laid limply in the sink. Most of the red dye had lifted from the yarn to tinge the sink a bloody pink. The blue threads were coming undone in the water, peeling and fraying like nerve networks.

Gil made to grab the doll. As he dipped his hands, the strands of pink ink darkened. The visceral color spread, taking over the sink, and Gil jerked his arms away. The water was too rich to see Enfer Noir.

He looked down at his hands. His veins seemed swollen beneath the skin, like the yarn wrapped around the bear. He tried smoothing his veins. They raked across his arms, stitching themselves to his elbows. He was streaked in blue-violet.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed. He wiped his hands on his pants. The room reeked of iron. _"Good Lord,"_ he said hysterically.

His veins disappeared all at once, like they had never swollen, like a hallucination shot through with a bullet.

He left the bathroom and sat on the edge of his bed. He dialed Alfred.

"What's up? Find anything?" Alfred greeted.

Gil exhaled heavily. Gazed around the room. Tried to think. "Yeah." He was stuck. He couldn't leave, and he couldn't stay. "Yeah, I did. Come up here."

"Why?"

"Because. Just fucking come up," he demanded. Alfred would probably be wholly entertained if Gil just explained himself - would probably come running - but talking about what had just happened - alone, covered in blood - seemed like welcoming a repeat.

"Um, alright? You better not be possessed, or some shit," Alfred warned.

The word came to Gil like an electric jolt. _Possessed._ He couldn't be possessed, he could feel himself in his mind, free will and clarity, he was _not_ possessed, and yet.

And yet. And yet. And yet.

He couldn't look at his arms.

"Should I bring Rod and Liz? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. You can bring them. I don't care." More voices sounded nice, more grounding. What were the chances of all four of them being possessed? Demons couldn't divide themselves amongst vessels, right? This wasn't mitosis. "Bring them. Please hurry."

"Dude, you don't sound alright," Alfred worried. Gil heard Liz ask something. Alfred answered her, "He's spooked or something, I don't know. He says he wants us at the room." There was some more discussion Gil couldn’t decipher, then Alfred told him, “We’re on our way. Be there soon. You sure you’re fine?”

“Yeah, more or less,” Gil mumbled.

“Okay,” Alfred accepted reluctantly. “See you soon.”

“Yeah.”

Alfred hung up first. The silence of the room returned, blaring in Gil’s ears like a dull ringing. He could call Alfred back, ask him to keep him on the line until they reached the room. But it would only take them five minutes to get here, and Gil was braver than that. He wasn’t a bitch.

He wished the room had a T.V.

* * *

 

“Was there some kind of power outage in the halls?” Alfred wondered, feeling along the walls. Not one of the sconces was on. He could just barely make out the yellow wallpaper.

Liz bunched up her long hair, tying a loose bun that tickled her nape, but stayed out of her face. “Would explain why Gil sounded scared on the phone, huh?” she reasoned.

Rod tripped over his feet in the dark. Liz’s hand shot out to steady his elbow. “Alright there?” she asked.

“I hate Halloween,” he grumbled.

“Aw,” Liz chuckled, sympathetic. “Tonight’s not _that_ bad, is it?”

“It is,” he disagreed, voice pinched.

“I am kind of tired,” Alfred admitted.

“So our hero does need sleep!” Liz exclaimed.

“It ain’t easy being immortal,” conceded Alfred. “I have needs, too.”

A door opened to their right. The nebulous outline of a man walked out, not shutting the door. He moved stiffly, the joints of his knees and elbows barely bending. He marched like a soldier toward them before abruptly halting about ten feet away. He turned to his side, reclining his neck like a rickety piece of discount furniture, and flung his head at the wall like a rock from a slingshot. He continued doing this, _bang, bang, bang._

“Yo, bro!” Alfred shouted, jogging to the man. He clutched his shoulders, wrenching him from the wall. There was a crevice of a shadow where a dent had been left. “What’s going on, you okay?” he questioned. Liz and Rod quickly closed the distance. Alfred held him up. When he looked at his face, the man’s eyes were completely black and unblinking. They were eight balls without the eight, shiny opaque marbles, polished coal.

Alfred backed up, but didn’t release his grip. Only when the man moved did Alfred let his arms fall off him. The man pivoted, spine like a pencil, and went back in his room. Alfred followed him uncertainly, Liz and Rod hovering behind.

The man headed to the bed, where his wife lay snoring. She cradled an itty-bitty infant to her chest, wrapped in a soft blue onesie and nightcap. Her back was pointed to where his figure had formerly rested. He easily took the baby from her arms and walked to the center of the room. The woman turned in her sleep.

Without a warning, he smashed the baby to the floor. Gasps struck the air like lightning, and Liz shrieked, _"What the fuck?”_   He lifted his foot and stomped a half a second before Alfred was tearing him away, arms hooked beneath his.

Rod flicked the lights on and flinched at the small form in the center of the room, soft blue and red.

The mother bolted up at the raised voices. She tumbled out of bed at the sight of the three strangers, one tackling her husband. She beat Alfred’s shoulder, demanding who the hell they were. Her husband thrashed against Alfred as her nails dug into the skin of Alfred’s shoulder. Alfred stumbled slightly, then threw himself atop the man on the bed. The mother was knocked off balance. She fell to the floor and saw her baby.

“Oh, my god,” she choked. “Oh, my god. Oh, my god.” She started screaming. Liz ran to her and she crawled backward, stifling her voice with her fist. She bit down on her thumb, still screaming around her hand, drawing blood. Beneath Alfred, the man ceased fighting. Alfred stood up.

Behind Liz, the woman was making wretched noises. Alfred ran a hand raggedly through his hair. “Holy shit.”

The man clumsily pushed himself up. He blinked blearily, eyes hazel, and stared uncomprehending at his wife, curled into a ball and wailing. “What,” he said weakly, slurring the _t._

Rod closed his eyes. Breathed deeply.

Liz reached out her hand, to comfort, and the woman flinched.

Alfred sucked in a breath. "We were trying to stop him." He looked at the ground helplessly. One of the man's socks was smeared.  "His feet," Alfred blurted. "Look at his feet," he said to the wife, pointing accusatively.

The man gazed down, but his eyes were blank, like a crashed computer. Blue screen of death. He seemed to understand that feet were below, and that he was supposed to look at them. There was something missing, though. Maybe he didn't know whose feet they were,  or what feet were at all. Maybe the blood was throwing him off, preventing him from pulling up some mental archive of feet.

"Do you see his feet?" Alfred picked up. "They've got stuff on them." She had her face in her hands. Alfred grew fervent. "His feet are covered! He was walking, and beating his head on a wall, and we tried to help him - but he came in here and stepped!" Alfred laughed nervously. "Are you looking? You got to look."

Alfred's phone rang, vibrating his pocket.

"Your phone," said Liz. "Alfred, your phone."

Liz speaking. Phone. Pocket buzzing. Oh, phone, right, "Hello?" Alfred asked into the receiver.

_"Where are you?"_

"Gil?" Alfred guessed.

_"Yes! Where are you? I thought you were coming!"_

"Right, sorry. Something happened."

_"What the fuck could've happened?"_

"Nothing big," Alfred answered. "But, um, Liz and Rod will come over. I'll meet up with you later."

_"Why?"_

"I'll explain later. Love you." Alfred ended the call and deposited the phone in his pocket, like automatic transactions. "I'm going to stay here. Can you guys go check on him?"

Rod was already out the door. Liz glanced uncomfortably at the guests, shocked and unresponsive, before leaving quietly.

She caught up to Rod, touching his back. She was searching for words. A question, perhaps, a reassurance. Thinking of something to say was like trudging through snow, running in a dream.

He didn't say anything, either.

 

 


End file.
